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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required “I can hear my muse whispering tenderly in my ear. There is a story that wants to be told, and I'm merely its chosen vessel.” ~ Dipa Sanatani Long ago, I heard a gentle voice whispering, but when I turned around, no one was there. I continued looking for a while, hoping to see the speaker I sensed still lingered nearby. It was as if an angel from celestial skies was hovering over me, filling my mind. She fed me lines of emotional words I'd been hard pressed to find. Sonnets born as my pen wrote pages of romantic expressions. Descriptive Haiku of pastoral scenes with flora and fauna, verdant hills, viridian seas, and rows of gently swaying tulips blowing in the breeze. Nuanced views to me. The melodious voice belonged to a muse who has helped me "trip the light fantastic." Those were her recurring words as she taught me to dance in shimmering silver moonlight with my choice of partners among the stars. She opened the bars of my cage and chased me out when I hesitated to fly. She laughed like a faerie at my rebellious nature, this glorious entity who once scolded me for fearing to write about passion in detail, the heartbreaking pain of lost loves and the finality of a last breath before death. She's a gypsy, wandering in the night, or an intruder in my dreams. Sighing when I refuse to heed her wake-up call. She's an angel, a sylph, a goddess in lace and silk, a temptress with windblown hair, but her face? I've never been allowed to see that part of her, though not veiled, she turns when I try to peek. She smells of lavender in spring, sweet scent of roses each summer, and as I slumber in autumn, she sings with cinnamon breath. In the chill of winter she whets my pen to write images of falling snow. She's a hearth fire burning bright, my mystical muse. Never am I audacious enough to summon her to me, for she appears unbidden, giving voice to my quill. I admit she often takes leave without a word of farewell, but when I hear a whisper in my ear, a smile forms on my lips for I know my gypsy muse has returned from wherever she's journeyed. I've asked her where it is she goes on her travels. A titter of laughter was all I heard until she spoke. "Somewhere between the breadth of cornflower skies and the unfathomable depths of emerald, green seas." January 5, 2023 My Muse Poetry Contest Sponsored by: Gina McIntosh
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